


In Cold Blood - Saving Little Eagles

by Amryyr



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dubious Consent, Guilt, M/M, Punishment, Self-Sacrifice, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26874436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amryyr/pseuds/Amryyr
Summary: Slave Tristan has embarassed his Master Lord Havok once again, and Arnette will pay the price for it. Tristan wouldn't be himself if he'd just let this happen. So he throws in all his seduction skills to divert the attention back to himself.
Kudos: 6





	In Cold Blood - Saving Little Eagles

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is the first time I ever wrote a fic! Those characters have existed in my mind for a long, long time and I finally chose to write parts of it down. Hope you enjoy reading it.
> 
> Feedback is very welcome. Speak the truth but be gentle about it.

Lord Havok closed the heavy oak door impossibly quietly after Tristan, gripping the door handle with white knuckles. They were in the main room of Havok’s private quarters, part of a generous three room suite located in the east wing of their host’s fortress. Tristan’s blue eyes quickly scanned the dimly lit room, moving seamlessly from wall to wall, lingering on the ornate chaise longue in the middle that beckoned with soft comfort, eyes then focused on the other slave boy hurrying out of the small servants’ chamber to his right.

_ Good, one less worry, _ Tristan noted, when Arnette silently fell onto his knees in greeting. Lucius’s frown only made his foul mood more evident. Tristan felt relief rush through himself at the whipping boy’s immediate submission, glad Arnette hadn’t given Lucius more reason to be furious. 

Tristan’s back was on fire after the punishment Lucius Havok had dealt him back in the dining hall - and still his master narrowed storm-clouded eyes at him; obviously Lucius wasn’t done with him yet.

He stripped hurriedly and dropped to his knees in the center of the spacious room. It was obvious his master only cared for his instant submission, so he wasted no time on the sensuality he usually would have made a point of. Tristan lowered his gaze, not needing to make matters worse, and quickly bound his long blond hair to a bun so it wouldn’t get in the way later.

There was still enough time to tilt his neck to show off the thin, intricately carved silver collar.  _ Personal property of Lucius Havok _ it read, and it accentuated his collarbone with its seemingly weightless presence. It felt heavy to Tristan. Even after three years, he was still an exceptionally shit slave. The small mercy of his collar being fashioned after a torq, jewelry rather than an obvious sign of slavery, didn’t help much to alleviate its oppressing weight.

Tristan hoped its usual pleasing effect on his master would not fail him today, hoped that it would draw Lucius’s eyes to the hollow of his slender throat. He was at a loss as to why his master was still displeased with him, and now his last hope was to play on his master’s possessiveness and infatuation to gain his mercy.

Mercy was what he and the whipping boy were in dire need of tonight.

Lucius Havok’s expression was frightening. His gaze found Tristan, then snapped to the slave boy just beyond. Tristan barely suppressed a sigh. So they were playing this game again: Tristan transgressed and Arnette would pay the price. 

He had been surprised when Lucius had punished him in public tonight. Lately, his master had ceased disciplining him physically. He’d decided punishments would be more effective which utilized Tristan’s protectiveness and urge to self-sacrifice. Thus, he had acquired a whipping boy and taken to deal out Tristan’s punishments on Arnette instead.

Tonight apparently wouldn’t be much different. Judging by the look his master gave Arnette, Tristan’s whipping just now was of no consequence and wouldn’t suffice to make up for his earlier show of defiance - unintended as it was, it had also been in plain sight. 

Arnette would again suffer severely, his body littered with scars that Tristan had earned. And Tristan would be made to watch through all of it with a churning stomach and unshed tears in his eyes, forbidden from begging and offering himself until Lucius was satisfied the lesson stuck. Mouth set in a bitter line, Tristan silently cursed himself for  _ still _ not being able to obey unconditionally.

  
  
  
  
  


He grit his teeth and clenched his fists till he felt his fingernails dig into his palms at the thought of Arnette taking his punishment  _ again _ , this was so  _ wrong _ ! A lump of dread weighed down with guilt made his stomach churn, so he mentally pushed down on it and proceeded trying to divert his master from punishing little Arnette in his stead. He planned on taking full advantage of his master’s infatuation.

He sighed inwardly and lifted his eyes a little, searching his master’s usually generous lips for a sign of relent. They were set in a grim line, framed by his meticulously trimmed beard peppered with grey. He almost snorted. Of course, their short show of submission wasn’t nearly enough to calm their master if he was in such a mood.

"My Lord, please-,” he started, but Lucius Havok cut him short with a huff, his eyes never leaving Arnette, curtly pointing to the spot next to his wayward slave. Arnette hurried to comply and dropped to his knees beside Tristan, their shoulders almost touching, subconsciously searching comfort. 

Tristan heard the boy’s knees hit the stone floor and soon felt boy’s warmth and fear seeping in. He hesitated, loathe to make matters worse, but then doubled his resolve and dared to speak again. “Please, Master. Let  _ me  _ take this punishment," he tried to plead as much as he dared, making sure there was a slight pause before the title of respect. He watched from underneath his eyelashes with his hopes rising as his master’s gaze lingered on his elegant neck, following the swirling tattoo patterns of the Blackblood clan wandering down his torso.

Encouraged by the momentary attention, he slowly locked his arms behind his back and tipped his head to bare his throat. He wet his lips and summoned his best breathy voice, "Let me take the punishment this one time. It was  _ my _ misconduct, though I did not mean to defy you. Please… spare Arnette." Making eye contact he relaxed his jaw and let his mouth drop slightly open. 

He was toeing a fine line there, not being allowed to speak nor to look at his betters. Most times, little liberties were tolerated as long as he proved entertaining enough. Get it wrong though, and Arnette would get hurt even worse. Hurriedly, he added a “Master,” holding his breath at the lapse, growing light-headed as he waited for Havok to snap.

This wasn’t the first time Arnette would be made to suffer in his stead. No, it was Arnette’s whole  _ purpose.  _ The silent, rather bony boy was a picture of perfect obedience. Every time the raven haired youth had been punished it had been Tristan’s fault, and he couldn’t just let it happen to Arnette again. How many more times was this bound to happen? 

Tristan just couldn't shake off his upbringing and kept making the stupidest mistakes. He dug his nails further into his palms as deep regret on taking pain too well washed over him, his former training making it unable for him to utter the sounds Lucius desired. Cursed be his physical resilience - one of his best traits back then as a Blackblood. Now he just failed to provide the reactions Lucius deemed fit for a punished slave, leading to Arnette made to suffer in his stead. But he would make use of another of his formerly useful talents to save Arnette.

  
  
  
  


Lucius Havok scrutinised his kneeling slave, head held up high, spine straight, belying the desperation in those blue eyes. His gaze lingered on the slightly open lips. Oh, he  _ saw  _ what his ever so proud slave was attempting there. He'd humour him for a short time - his swordsman’s body and spirit were just too tempting, especially when he threw his whole being into seduction. He could just order him to any time, but having him trying to please him, even though he was inherently reluctant, was a  _ treat _ . 

He liked the eager look his slave gave him, even while it was clear to read on his face that he was offering his body in exchange for being allowed to take a lot of pain eventually, just to save his little Arnette. His mouth curled in slight derision, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards finally.  _ Really, Tristan's guilt and protectiveness made it so easy to control him.  _

Lucius reached down to his begging slave and tilted his chin upwards with a gentle finger. He hummed in delight and felt his rage subside, having the fallen assassin begging him for punishment and hinting at offering his body to be used  _ first _ . Both men knew Tristan could have easily killed Lucius on the spot. 

Tristan _wouldn’t_ though - Lucius simply had ruled out any options for his slave and Tristan was fully aware of it. _Worse_ , Lucius mused, T _ristan seemed to like to be overwhelmed by him._ Every now and again he made a point of showing that he could outwit his slave any time. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a brief smile. Now he traced his thumb across his slave’s soft, but dry lips and silently watched the spark of hope light up in those troubled cornflower blue eyes.

  
  
  
  


Tristan felt the need to save Arnette creeping into his stomach like a sickness, a need that became overbearing in the silence. Tristan swallowed and gently pressed his lips to Lucius’s thumb. His mind raced, his shoulders ached from the weight of needing to save the boy. Finally he settled on words he hated, but knew Lucius would love to hear. With his best begging voice he husked, “Please… ,” then kissed the thumb again and mouthed, lips ghosting over the digit, “discipline  _ me _ , Master!” He hated to sound like this. The worse he humiliated himself though, the more likely he’d put Lucius into a more forgiving mood.

Lucius’s mouth widened in a sneer at the little halt before his title, which would get less the more desperate his slave became. His grip tightened, thumb pressing down on Tristan’s lip, index and middle finger digging into the hollow of the chin. “That begging’s hardly worthy of your skill. I’ve  _ heard  _ you do better,” Lucius snorted, then snapped at Arnette, “Remove your shirt.” He held Tristan's gaze, knowing Arnette would comply even through his slight shaking.

Tristan swallowed audibly, his throat constricting, breath stuck.  _ Seriously, it would be so much easier for everyone else if he gave in and settled into his fate. His rebellious streak only kept getting Arnette hurt. But he couldn't help it - hard as he may try, he'd eventually slip up and give Lord Havok ample cause to discipline him again. And wasn't it just what he deserved? _ He gave in to shame and let his chin drop to his chest.

_ If only Lucius didn’t desire a clear conveyment of his pain when punishing him. If only he hadn’t bought Arnette and gifted the boy to him - telling him he liked the way emotional distress added to the depth and beauty of his cornflower eyes. _

Lucius squeezed one last time, let go of Tristan’s lip and turned on his heels, but then reconsidered and paused, a  vile smirk quirking the side of his mouth. "Arnette, fetch an implement!" he ordered, while watching the pained look on Tristan’s expression deepen. The whipping boy's head snapped up, and he stumbled onto his feet. 

“You have done a marvellous job on training your boy,” Lucius remarked to Tristan when Arnette offered him the scourge with barely trembling hands and walked over to the rings embedded in the wall, clipping his ever present wrist restraints in, then lowering himself on his knees, his arms stretched out to the side, letting his forehead rest against the cold stone wall. 

Lucius kept his eyes on his unruly slave, his lips curving upward at the pained look on Tristan’s beautiful angular face, his own smile broadening at how the other’s eyes shone with unshed tears. He turned the scourge in his hands, silently exhaling in derision at how Tristan tried to avoid looking at it. He kept scrutinising his almost imperceivably trembling slave for a long time. 

  
  
  



End file.
